


The scars that we hide

by motionalocean



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anxiety, Body Image, Canon Compliant, Explicit for future chapters, Gang Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motionalocean/pseuds/motionalocean
Summary: Arthur has a story on his skin. Only one person knew that story, and Cobb messed with her mind and now she's gone. Now, Arthur wraps himself in vests and long sleeves and perfectly tailored pants and a hard veneer of control, and never lets anyone in dreamshare see his past. Until Eames, who sees both his brittle exterior and his core of steel and would very much like to explore the layers in between.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	The scars that we hide

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Inception Big Bang (my first!)
> 
> Massive thanks to [tamat9](https://tamat9.tumblr.com/), who picked my prompt and was also an excellent cheerleader!

Awakening on the plane after a week spent in Yusuf’s constantly-raining dreamscape left Arthur feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. His entire body ached from disuse, and he stretched as he gazed across the first-class cabin. Despite Ariadne’s assurances that he’d confronted Mal’s shade and would be okay, Arthur couldn’t help but sag in relief as Dom opened his eyes and immediately glared at Saito. A moment later, Arthur could just make out Saito lifting the in-flight phone to his ear.

After a few short statements, Saito set the phone down and nodded once, sharply. Dom looked back at Arthur in disbelief. Arthur raised his eyebrows, trying to tell Dom to calm the fuck down. It wasn’t easy. He knew the nerves were written all over his own face. They’d done it. They’d performed inception, the energy industry would never be the same, and Dom was going home.

Dom was going home.

It didn’t seem real, so Arthur pushed it to the back of his mind. As soon as his legs would hold him, he stood and made his way to the lavatory to ease his bladder. After washing his hands he reached for the die in his pocket, but the irregular pull of muscle and skin over his chest told him as much as the repetitive four that this was reality.

He stared at his face in the mirror for a long time before resettling his coat and heading back to his seat.

Landing, disembarking, and walking through the terminal passed in a haze. Arthur kept his eyes to himself, not daring to share a glance with anyone on the team. They were all running the risk of Fischer recognizing them as something other than faces brought into his subconscious, so it was crucial to avoid interaction. Nevertheless, when they got to immigration, Arthur made sure to pick a line near to Dom. 

It didn’t seem right when the immigration officer welcomed Dom home. It seemed perfectly normal, like the past two years hadn’t happened. Miles was there, calm as could be.

“Next!”

Arthur hefted his carry-on further up his shoulder and felt the knot of scar tissue on his bicep beneath his shirt and coat. Reality. Right. He walked forward and handed over his passport.

Dom was no longer his responsibility. His job was… it was done.

It continued to feel unreal. Arthur kept his eyes scanning as he walked through the terminal to the taxis. He’d lost track of the rest of the team. Yusuf and Ariadne had connecting flights, so were probably heading back through security. Eames had mentioned he was staying in L.A. for another job, but he’d probably catch a hopper or a train just to throw off any tail.

Arthur didn’t have any plans, he realized as the doors whooshed open and he stepped from cool dry air conditioning into dense humid smog.

He joined the line for taxis, moving by rote. Halfway through the line, he ducked under the line marker and doubled back inside as if for a coffee before joining the line again several minutes later. When there were only two people in front of him, he waved for the woman behind him to pass. When he was first in line, he dropped his carryon, letting two more people pass to ensure any taxi driver targeting him would be foiled.

“Where you headed?” his driver asked from under a truly impressive moustache. He seemed focused but casual; friendly in a professional way, no ulterior motive.

“Shoot, you know, I forgot to make a phone call,” Arthur said, and left the taxi for the next person in line, starting the routine all over again.

Eventually he settled into a taxi. The driver was a boisterous Black woman named Shanya who kept up a steady chatter about global warming, how her baby was studying the ocean and was going to find a way to save the world. Arthur interjected enough to keep her going, but otherwise kept an eye out the back window, looking for vehicles that lingered longer than was coincidental. Twice he asked Shanya to turn at the next light, but it didn’t look like anyone was following.

They were far from both the airport and Arthur’s house by this point, Arthur having initially directed Shanya towards a hotel that completed the triangle, and told her to take as many back roads as she cared to. The meter was racking up a hefty sum, but Arthur cared far more about making sure no one followed him home.

A splash of blue on the wall of an alley caught his eye, and Arthur almost got whiplash trying to track it as they blazed past.

“Stop!” he yelled, interrupting a description of Shanya’s daughter’s project on algae. She muttered about manners, but pulled over to the side of the road, letting cars pass with much honking.

“What are you hollerin’ about, back there?”

“Where are we?” Arthur asked.

Shanya raised her eyebrows in the mirror at him and told him the neighborhood and cross-streets. Arthur’s estimate was off by a few blocks, but they were generally in the part of the city he thought. Which made what he’d seen on the wall preposterous.

“Can you back up?”

“You want me to back up, on _this_ street?”

“Just to the alley, I need to see something.”

Cursing about how if she got a ticket, she’d kick his white ass, Shanya put the taxi in reverse and slowly crept back in the parking lane towards the alley. 

There, stretching a good ten feet in the air, was the blue-green outline of a cobra, its hood flared. Beady black eyes hovered over fangs that dripped red blood. A stylized “SC” was drawn with precision below it.

Arthur couldn’t breathe. The red blood drop bloomed in his mind, became a stain on Saito’s white shirt, morphed into red lips gasping on a basketball court in the dark. His chest hurt, suddenly and searingly, and Arthur could feel knees pinning him into gravel.

“Hey. Hey, mister! Snap out of it, c’mon, don’t go dying in my cab, alright? Hey! You with me?”

Arthur dragged his eyes away from the tag to where Shanya was staring back at him. She breathed in exaggeratedly, and Arthur couldn’t help but follow sympathetically. She breathed out again. So did Arthur. In. And out.

“Hey, you good?” she asked again, eventually.

Arthur shook his head. “No, yeah. I…” breathing was still difficult. He pulled his coat around himself further and cleared his throat. “Keep… keep driving. Head south when you can. I’m not actually going to that hotel.” He gave the address of the grocery store nearest his house.

Shanya pulled back into traffic and Arthur let the cobra tag slip out of sight. His mind raced with maps of the city, pins and lines and marks of where he knew the Cobras claimed territory. They were far outside those limits.

“Hey, do you know anything about the… the gang that mark’s from?” he asked Shanya. For once she’d been quiet, darting quick concerned glances at him in her rearview mirror.

She eyed him warily. “I’m thinking not as much as you. You got beef? I don’t want it in my cab.”

“No, no, that’s not it, I’m just surprised. I didn’t know they were in this neighborhood.”

“Oh, they’re all over the place, those ones. Been seeing those damn fangs more and more these last few years. Not sure what’s happened, but they seem to be on a roll. It’s not in the news so much, but those of us with our eyes open can see it.”

“Are other gangs still fighting back? Or are they being absorbed?”

Shanya’s eyebrows rose. “Now, I’m sure I don’t know anything about that. My family stays out of that business, y’hear, we ain’t never had a gang member. My baby’s going to college.”

Her pride was unmistakable, and it pulled Arthur out of his own musings. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Just that cab drivers see so much. Your daughter sounds great, she’s lucky to have you as a mom.”

“Well thank you. It’s hard sometimes in this city, you know. Makin’ a living, keepin’ the family together.”

Arthur laughed wryly. “Yeah, I grew up here. I don’t know anything about keeping a family together.” A phantom hand touched his cheek, wiping away blood. _We’re your brothers, now_. He waved it away and cinched his tie up a notch.

“My kids had those, whadyacallems, those after-school programs? Not through the school, it was a center, kids from all over came. Life savers, they were, when I was working late shifts and couldn’t be home. Real good folks runnin’ it, too. They cared about the kids, you could tell. When my baby was twelve…”

Arthur’s mind wandered as Shanya continued. He hadn’t had anything like that. The hours between school and dinner had been long, too easily filled with mischief, with older kids inviting him into their circles if he proved himself somehow. The memories of how he yearned for their approval ached.

Shanya pulled up at the grocery store and Arthur directed her manually the last few blocks to his house. The roundabout detour to the other side of town made the fare exorbitant, but he left a significant tip and thanked Shanya for both the ride and her conversation.

“You stay outta trouble, now, hear me?” she said, and gave him a nod before driving off.

Arthur was left standing on the driveway of the house he hadn’t seen in almost two years. It was modest, as far as suburban single-family homes in Los Angeles went, though Arthur could hardly say the same for his property taxes. It was a compact one-story, surrounded by a concrete fence on three sides, not high enough for full security but enough to slow someone down and obstruct sightlines. The front was open to the street, with a gated-off driveway passing to the left of the house to the back yard. The front yard, like many houses in L.A., had minimal grass, instead landscaped with groundcover and a few low leafy date palms. A walkway split the yard, inviting people up a few steps to an open veranda framed by large windows.

Arthur followed the driveway to the left of the house and keyed in the security code for the gate. It unlocked with a brief buzz and he wheeled his suitcase through, making sure to close the gate firmly behind himself before continuing into the back yard. On the back door to the house there was yet another number pad. Inside, he quickly made his way to his office and keyed in the code to disarm and rearm the main alarm. Only then did he drop his suitcase and briefcase and breathe in the smell of home.

It smelled of dust, quite frankly. Having a housekeeper - an old family friend of Mal’s, more trustworthy than anyone Arthur knew before or after dreamshare - come once a month was barely enough to keep the space fresh. 

Arthur used the attached screen to check the history of the security system - nothing out of the ordinary, just Jean coming in once a month for a few hours. He’d do a full system check tomorrow. 

Yet another code opened the top drawer of his safe, from which he pulled a handgun. He checked the clip, checked the safety, then made his way quietly from room to room, refamiliarizing himself with the space and making sure nothing seemed off.

Twenty minutes later he came back to his office and re-secured the gun. He was exhausted, suddenly. It was amazing how sleeping for twelve hours while your brain experienced over a week of time could wipe you out. Arthur made himself wheel his suitcase into his bedroom, then remove his coat, tie, and belt and hang them up. He sat on the edge of his bed - freshly made, Jean changed them every month regardless of whether they’d been slept in - to tug off his shoes. He barely caught himself from toppling to the floor when he bent over.

He couldn’t even manage putting his shoes in their place in his closet, just crawled up the bed and surrendered to the voluminous duvet and pillows.

\--

Arthur woke from a dreamless sleep groggy and unsure of where he was. The room was dark, the bed far more comfortable than most of the hotel rooms he’d stayed in of late. He was fully dressed - even his socks, he realized with distaste. His eyes felt puffy and gritty. His teeth didn’t bear thinking about. 

He blinked at the red numbers on the bedside table until they came into focus. 11:49. AM? PM? He couldn’t focus on the small text of the qualifier, and immediately remembered that he was home, because he hated that alarm clock.

He forced himself to roll over to face the window and saw a faint glow of light around the blackout curtains. AM, then.

Arthur reveled for a moment in the near-silent suburban noises. A bird was trilling outside his window and he could hear a faint plane flying overhead, but that was it. No highway noises, no couple squabbling - or decidedly not squabbling - in the next room. No Cobb snoring in the other bed.

Cobb. Arthur rolled over, shimmying his hips to untwist his slacks. His shirt chafed against his shoulder, reminding him that he was awake. He blinked at the ceiling a few times, unsure whether his eyes felt more scratchy open or closed.

Cobb was home. 

Two full years of work, of never letting his guard down, of taking increasingly risky jobs with the hope of better payoffs. Two years of burying his own grief in favor of Dom’s. Of wondering whether whatever had happened to Mal would consume her husband as well.

Mal was dead.

Arthur blinked at the ceiling. His eyes burned, but not with tears. _Mal is dead_ , he told himself again. It didn’t feel real. He knew it was true, but it didn’t pull at anything in him.

Two years of waiting to grieve, and he couldn’t.

Arthur rolled off of his bed and stumbled into his en-suite. His body wasn’t really cooperating, but he made it in one piece. He kept the light off. It was light enough to see, but not bright enough to really focus. He started the water running in the shower, jumping back as it sputtered from air in the pipes. As it heated, he stripped off the rest of his clothes, tossing them in the hamper. A quick pocket check revealed his die and a slip of paper that he definitely did not remember putting there. He placed both on the vanity.

After his shower - short and efficient, punishingly hot - Arthur stared at the clothes in his closet. They were the ones he’d left behind when he followed Cobb. A lot of t-shirts from his younger years, some jeans and sweatpants. And a very small selection of nicer slacks, shirts, and vests. He fingered the fabric of one of the waistcoats. He had a better appreciation for suits now than he’d had before, but his original tailor hadn’t failed him. They were as quality as she’d said.

He eyed the soft cottons of his old t-shirts. The softness seemed anything but, like it would chafe incessantly at his skin. He felt like if he relaxed, he’d explode. So he picked out slacks, a light long-sleeve button-up, and a waistcoat. Pulling them on felt like re-securing walls that he hadn’t known he’d let down. The vest in particular curled around him like armor. It was tight, but in a way that said it was there, and so was he.

He slipped the die into his pocket out of habit, though there was no mistaking his reality. The slip of paper with it was unbleached, like recycled paper, almost rustic. The phone number on one side looked faintly familiar, as did the rugged calligraphy and the cross on the seven.

Arthur grabbed his phone off the nightstand and keyed in the number. As he suspected, it pulled up the contact page for Eames.

He frowned at the paper, then back at the phone. Eames had obviously slipped the paper into his pocket sometime after they landed. Or before? It didn’t really matter. He’d known Eames had a job lined up in L.A. if all went well with Fischer. Maybe this was an opportunity.

He pressed “call” on the phone and walked out to the kitchen, still musing over the paper and why Eames would give it to him. Too late, he turned it over to read the back.

_Fancy a drink?_

Shit. Not about a job, then.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames purred into the phone when he answered.

Arthur couldn’t respond. His hand locked around the phone. He was still staring at the paper, willing it to not exist.

“Arthur? That _is_ you, right? I know it’s your phone number. I hacked your records”

“You _hacked_ my _phone number_?” Arthur said, suddenly able to talk again. “You couldn’t just ask for it?”

“Well now, that would have been fun, but I’m not entirely sure you would have taken me seriously.”

“How serious should I have taken it?”

“Oh, extremely. I see you found my note, then?”

“Um.” Arthur looked down at the slip of paper, Eames’ rugged calligraphy. “Yes, though that’s not actually why I called.”

“You...called for a reason other than that you now have my mobile number?” His tone had lost a bit of its flirtatious teasing.

“I’ve had your number for ages, Eames. Don’t be obtuse, if you can find out mine then I can obviously do the same. In probably half the time.”

There was a pause. “Right, of course. Silly me. To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

Arthur felt a little bad about how Eames’ tone had changed over so few exchanges. Had he really intended Arthur to call for a _date_? That was ridiculous.

Raised eyebrows and a smirk barely obstructed by stubble came to mind. Arthur pushed it aside.

“I need a job.” 

“You do know we just did the impossible yesterday, right? Do you not owe yourself a vacation?”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Ah, but I so rarely get the chance to work in the States. Wouldn’t want to waste the trip.”

“Is a vacation a wasted trip?”

“Not if you’re there, love.”

Arthur waited for a normal scathing response to appear in his mind, but it didn’t. The pause was long, and awkward.

Eames eventually cleared his throat. “Right, sorry. You were calling about a job. I actually wanted to ask you about this one I’m about to start, but I figured after we landed you’d either be chasing after Cobb again, or taking time off.”

Arthur wondered into which of those scenarios the date was supposed to fit.

“Your job’s in L.A., right? You don’t know of anything out of town?” he asked. Staying in L.A., with the Cobras, with Cobb, with _Eames_ , it seemed too much. 

“I haven’t really kept my ear to the ground, what with Fischer and this one lined up. Sorry. Haven’t you got a little black book of contacts, or something?”

Arthur did, indeed, have a little black book. It didn’t contain contacts, however. Or at least, not those he’d call to ask for a favor so small as a job. It was a book of skeletons, of all the dirt he could find on anyone who had a name in dreamshare. He kept it locked in a safe, for rainy days and dire emergencies.

“Yeah, I’ve got some other folks I could call.” But as he thought about it, he realized he didn’t really want to call up all his old contacts one after the other and beg for a job. He’d blown so many of them off, the years he was working with Cobb. They’d have questions that he didn’t want to have to answer. He swallowed hard. “What’s your L.A. job?”

When Arthur got off the phone half an hour later, he had the basics of the job and an address at which to meet the team in two days’ time. It still seemed like too much downtime, but Eames insisted. And when his stomach objected loudly, he realized that he had a lot to do in order to make his home livable again.

He made himself pasta from the meager supplies in his pantry and devoured it while standing at his kitchen island and making a list of everything he needed to do. Grocery shopping. A comprehensive test of the security system. Test his personal PASIV device. Unpack. Repack his go-bag. Do preliminary research on the mark. Visit his tailor. Spend some time in his home gym. Book time at the shooting range. Go through his mail. Check on Cobb.

Arthur looked at the last, considered crossing it off, then left it. It felt like a final obligation, one that he knew he would put off, but didn’t want to ignore completely.

Right. Two days. He put his bowl in the dishwasher and went to test the security system.

\--

Two days later, Arthur walked into the warehouse deep in industrial L.A. feeling remade. His hair was slicked back, his tie impeccable, his waistcoat vicelike, his trousers perfectly creased, and his shoes flawlessly polished. His tailor had outdone herself with his rushed job. He couldn’t wait to see how the additional suits turned out.

His footsteps echoed through the space ominously as he made his way from the outside door - unlocked, he’d noticed. If that was standard instead of for his benefit, he’d have to find a better solution. There was no excuse for shoddy security, even if the job did have minimal risk. 

He carried a briefcase with his computer and the notes he’d already made about the job in his left hand. He’d left his own PASIV at home, after ensuring that it was still functioning properly. He’d test the team’s PASIV device today, and if he found it lacking he’d bring his own tomorrow. 

The hallway opened into the main space, and Arthur paused. The room was laid out with two desks at right angles to each other, plus a drafting table and large architectural table taking up the center. One corner of the room had three lawn chairs circled around a low desk, obviously for the PASIV. Another corner had a ratty-looking sofa and a wet bar with a sink, microwave, coffee maker, and some drying mugs.

Eames was standing at the drafting table, eyeing it intently with his tongue sticking just between his lips. He was wearing a horrible salmon-colored short-sleeve button-up and long cargo shorts. There were swirls and smudges of black ink peeking out below his sleeves. 

“You must be Arthur.” The person sitting at the desk nearest Arthur stood up and held out a hand. “I’m Kami, they/them pronouns. I’m the extractor. Eames tells me you’re the best Point in the business.”

Kami was tall and brown-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and delicate hands. Their hair was shaved on both sides and short on the top, but less military and more punk. They had a nose-ring and gauges. The leggings and loose tank top seemed to both contradict and complement the look.

“Well if I’m still relying on Eames to get my name out, I obviously have a way to go,” Arthur said as he shook Kami’s hand.

“Nonsense, darling.” Eames had put down his pen and stepped away from the drafting board. “You are the best, and you know it.” He looked Arthur up and down and whistled. “My my, but you’ve cleaned up nicely.”

Arthur glared at him. “You haven’t,” he snapped back.

“I’ve never tried,” Eames said somberly.

Arthur scowled. This. This was the shit that he didn’t want to deal with. Falling into the same pattern of jibes with Eames was just too easy, and he didn’t want it. He wrenched his attention back to Kami.

They were watching the exchange with too-knowing eyes. “I see. Well, Eames indicated he was happy to work with you, Arthur. You may be the best, but are we going to have a problem?”

_It’s not_ my _fault_ , Arthur wanted to yell, but that was just stooping to Eames’ level. He pulled his vest down with sharp tugs of his free hand. “Not at all,” he told them, and resolved that it would be true. He took a moment to build his walls back up, strong enough to keep out Eames’ needling. “Want to brief me in?”

Kami invited Arthur to get some coffee and then led him and Eames over to the large tables to give an overview of the job. It was a simple extraction - their client wanted to know what direction a rival CEO was planning to take her company following a recent and unexpected merger. Arthur’s job was to find out not only enough information on the mark and her company to make the dream realistic, but also as many details as possible on what _was_ known about the merger, so they were well prepared for dream interactions. He also planned to look into their client’s involvement and motives, as a matter of professional habit. Anyone eager to turn to dream-heist for corporate espionage deserved a little bit of scrutiny, in his opinion, even if it did keep him employed.

It turned out the team was just the three of them. Kami was in the process of sourcing somnacin, so they didn’t need a chemist on hand, and the job only required one level. Arthur would double as an architect.

He had suspected as much, when Eames hadn’t mentioned any other names. It made him uneasy, that there was only one unknown person playing buffer for Eames’ flirtations. It made them stand out in a way they hadn’t before.

Or maybe it was the note. Arthur had considered getting rid of it numerous times in the past two days, but in the end had put it in the top drawer of his desk, question up. He’d smoothed his thumb over it before hiding it away.

Eames was professional throughout the briefing, interjecting only with the research he had done and the options for his forgery. Arthur didn’t look at him once. Then again, he barely looked at Kami. He was here to do a job, and to do that job he needed to focus, not fall into whatever game Eames was playing. 

At one point, Eames leaned past him, pointing to a section of the workflow chart Kami had drafted up. Arthur felt him move and slid fluidly to the side, leaving a good foot between them. Eames hesitated, but then continued so quickly that Arthur wasn’t sure whether he had imagined it. Arthur’s shoulder tingled in awareness of his proximity, and he made himself relax, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop his hyperfixation.

Once they were all on the same page, they split up to work on their individual sections. Arthur started with lists, categorized into things to do, things to research, and questions to answer. He requested architectural plans of their mark’s apartment and office building, bouncing the request through multiple IP addresses and a VPN. He found public photos of both and made notes of the architecture and decor. 

Several hours passed in relative quiet. Arthur didn’t know Kami, but enjoyed how they didn’t hover or micromanage. They spent most of the time on the computer or making phone calls. Just before noon they disappeared into the restroom and came back wearing capris and a blazer.

“I have a meeting with the client over lunch,” they said. “Anything you need clarification on at this point?”

“I’ve emailed you my timeline estimate,” Arthur told them, hitting _Send_. “I’d really like more of what the client has on the mark, if they’re willing to share. Obviously they’re not going to be totally forthcoming with us about their motives, so whatever information they give us that I can compare with other sources will help paint a broader picture.”

“I hired you for details, not the broad picture.”

Arthur fixed them with a long look. Was this a test? “If I’m working from an incomplete picture, the details have no context. I can’t do my job without all the information.”

Kami raised an eyebrow. “Not very trusting, are you?”

_If you’d met my last extractor,_ Arthur wanted to reply, but bit his tongue. He just waited, pretty sure it wasn’t actually a question.

After a moment, the side of Kami’s mouth quirked. “Fair enough. If you have specific questions, send them in the next twenty minutes. I’ll see what I can get.”

Arthur nodded. 

“Eames?” Kami asked.

Eames shook his head. “I’m good for now. I may want observational time with someone from the client’s office, as a contingency option, but I haven’t narrowed it down to whom, yet.”

“Want me to float it to them, see what they say?”

“Nah, observation is shite when they know I’m watching, so anyone you tell would get crossed off the list. I’ll let you know when I have a better idea.”

“Alright.” They slid a briefcase off their desk. “I should be back in three hours. I’ll keep you notified if otherwise.”

Arthur turned back to his desk after they left, drafting out some more questions for the client. Just after hitting _Send_ , he realized Eames’ pen wasn’t making its characteristic scribbling noises. He looked up. Eames was sitting on the stool at the drafting table, facing the wrong way and leaning an elbow on it. He was watching Arthur, and didn’t even try to hide it.

Arthur could feel his cheeks warming. “What?” he asked.

“Just watching.”

“I’m working, Eames.”

“Yes, you are.”

Arthur closed his laptop lid, exasperated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eames pursed his lips. He was flicking the pen between his fingers, back and forth across his knuckles. He didn’t respond.

“I thought watching was _shite_ when they know it’s happening,” Arthur mocked.

“Well I’m not trying to forge you, now am I.”

_Are you?_ Arthur almost asked. Eames’ eyes were focused on him so intently that Arthur shivered. He tugged on his vest and swallowed. His eyes skittered across the room. 

_If you’re not trying to forge me, then what the hell are you doing?_

He couldn’t ask that, either.

“Eames, I’m on this job because you wanted me on this job. What's your deal?”

“No deal.” Eames licked his lips, a slow slide of his tongue in and out. Arthur couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering down. Eames didn’t smirk.

He saw, but he didn’t smirk. Eames always smirked. Getting Arthur’s attention, especially alone like this. He always smirked.

Arthur’s heart rate jolted. He stood up, pushing his chair back. Eames’ eyes followed him, intense, unblinking. He checked the exits - one, two. The PASIV. The windows, the door to the restroom. “Eames, are you okay? Are we okay?” 

His gun was in his briefcase. He hadn’t wanted to show up unarmed, but how fucking useless was a gun in his briefcase instead of on him? He flexed his hands, though they were already warm from typing. All of him was warm, his heart working harder to pump oxygen throughout his body. Every inhale of breath brushed reality against the pressure of his vest. Eames was still staring at him. “Eames!”

Eames blinked and caught his pen with a final flair. He smiled brightly, the spell broken. “Sorry, love, my mind must have wandered. I’m quite alright.” He turned back to his sketches.

Arthur gaped at his back, strings cut, leaning heavily on his desk. What the fuck. He cast another wary glance around the warehouse as he caught his breath. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to explain _Eames_ being out of the ordinary.

“Are we trusting Kami’s PASIV, or are we using yours?” Eames asked over his shoulder, like nothing had happened. Arthur breathed out hard and looked over to where Kami had staged the large suitcase containing the device, the chairs surrounding it.

“I’ll service and test theirs this afternoon. If you’re okay keeping watch topside?”

“Certainly. Do you have any concerns about Kami?”

“No,” Arthur said slowly, his body still expecting a fight. “I made some calls; they check out. Up-and-comer. No military or research background, got brought in by Hernandez a couple years back. Big on organization and planning; I wonder how they never got into legal project management. Maybe the pay. This is their… second job as extractor? From what I can tell they’re trying to branch out on their own more.”

“Lucky they have us to assist, then.”

“You knew all that,” Arthur accused.

“I did,” Eames said. “Just comparing notes, darling.”

“Right.” Arthur pushed back from the desk. “I’m going to… go get lunch,” he said. He looked down to his briefcase, useless gun still inside. But he didn’t have anywhere to conceal it on his person. The briefcase was unlocked. He flicked an eye to Eames. If he locked it now, he knew that’d just be an invitation for him to pick the lock. Right. He squared his shoulders and strode towards the door.

“Bring me back one of the same?” Eames asked. 

Arthur slammed the door on his way out.

Well, so much for being remade. One morning alone with Eames’ and Arthur felt the same as always - constantly aware of him, like a buzz in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he focused on other things. 

He turned left outside the warehouse, not out of any sort of idea as to his destination, just to move. His sleeves were still rolled up to just under the elbow. Arthur wanted to punch something, but he settled for a brisk walk and feeling the warm air tease his arm hairs.

What was it about Eames, he wondered, not for the first time, that got under his skin so easily? They were two of the best people in their field. Their jobs were tangential, overlapping only in the mechanics, not the intent. They couldn’t compete professionally. Their skills complemented each other. By all accounts, they should work well together. So why was it that it felt like they were two magnets of the same polarity, constantly running into each other only to push each other away?

Arthur wished he didn’t want to work with Eames. He wished Eames had sent him to work on a job on the East coast or up in Canada. He wished that he knew that if Eames had given him those options, that Arthur wouldn’t still be right here.

The thing was, working with Eames was thrilling. Illuminating. The way he saw human behavior and intent and motivation was fascinating, and the way that he utilized that knowledge was inspiring.

Not that Arthur ever planned to tell him that. _Your condescension is much appreciated, Arthur._ Arthur wasn’t going to stroke his ego any more.

He played brilliant and then dumb at the drop of a hat. Arthur was constantly off balance. Not magnets, he realized suddenly. A scale, a balance. Except where Arthur was stuck on his side, unable to change, Eames was perched above his, choosing whether to put down just his toe, or his whole body, or nothing at all.

_Stop playing the game_ , Arthur told himself, as he rounded the corner. _Stop letting him control the balance._

There was a sandwich deli across the street, quite serendipitously. Arthur ordered himself a grilled pesto and veggie panini and home-made potato chips. He considered the same for Eames - he had asked, after all - but from what he actually knew of Eames’ taste, that would be petty. And petty was playing the game. 

The pastrami on rye was dense and satisfying to drop on Eames’ drafting table. He knew Eames raised an eyebrow when he opened it, but Arthur didn’t respond. _Stop playing the game_.

He went to disassemble and service the PASIV.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been plotted out, but Life happened (on top of a global pandemic!) and I was unable to finish on the Big Bang timeline. I'll post updates when I can. Thanks for reading!


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